


imitatio dei

by flosculous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Priests, Angst, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Loss of Parent(s), Molestation, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Suspense, Tom is a priest, nunnery, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculous/pseuds/flosculous
Summary: From the red curtains and behind the altar came a man. A man that looked like a God. High cheekbones and full lips, dark hair swept into a neat hairstyle suggesting an image of perfection - but those eyes. Hermione dug her fingernails into the soft tissue of her inner palm. Those eyes could only assure her of the devil’s existence.





	1. de profundis

**Author's Note:**

> Priest AU no one wanted. It's kind of psychological thriller with elements of horror. Mature themes.

The figure looked as if the person hanging from the cross had been tortured and famished. The lines on his face were angular and showed his pained expression - the eyes shut and mouth forming a half smile. Why smiling when you're the one who’s dying? The destroyed tissue of his palms was too soft in her opinion - the impact could have been stronger. His bones should have been crushed and skin torn and angry red from oozing blood. She glanced at his legs and bit her bottom lip. The knees were supposed to be broken - they didn't look that way. The itching in her hands slowly crept up her forearms and absent mindedly she reached there only to stop herself from doing it. The rosary beads in her fingers slowly fell down on the marble floor. The sight of it so peculiar and odd that her brown irises widened. She furrowed her brows while touching the cold floor. 

"Hermione, are you alright?" The faulty organ she used to call a heart, jumped in her chest as she turned in the direction of an elderly voice. Sister Minerva observed her haunted form with a pitying look. Gripping the rosary between her fingers, she stretched her spine before she cleared her sore throat. 

"Yes, Ma'am. I've been praying," she wasn't necessarily lying, however, admitting to studying the sculpture of Jesus, might have been looked down upon. Taking her bible, she exited the pew she was sitting in. The older woman's features relaxed and a hand called Hermione to come closer. 

"That's good, dear. You've been coming to the altar every day. You’re giving beautiful testimony to your sisters," the wrinkles on her forehead creased as she caught Hermione's elbow. Nodding at her monologue, the brunette gathered her skirts and followed her Mother Superior. The extraordinary ceiling of the Scottish church felt as if it was falling upon her with its majestic beauty and heaviness. She didn't like that feeling. It made her feel small and suffocated. The prickling cold air slapped her cheeks as the elder sister opened a huge, wooden door. It was winter and the barren landscape looked as if it was taken from a scene in a horror movie. 

"Sister Minerva, I have a question," her courage woke from a slumber and with a slight force she stopped her sister. Minerva’s glossy eyes scanned the troubled girl with a motherly concern.

"Yes, child?" If she was trying to get her to speak faster, she masked it with a perfect image of patience. The wind was wailing above her head and if Hermione's hair hadn't been twisted into a sleek braid, they would have danced on the strong gusts. 

"If I felt that I am not ready to practice the holy blessings, would you have me removed from the convent?" She looked at the graves scattered upon the nearby hill with something akin to a desperate need. When she gazed upon Jesus, she only saw a man - not a God. Could these feelings be present? Could they exist? She felt as if her mind had been feeding her lies. The words from the bible and psalms seemed to be bleak and vain. Could she be under the influence of a bad spirit? 

"Of course not, dear. It's your decision. God is keeping you in his arms all the time," Minerva’s hand tapped her shoulders two times before vanishing inside the pockets of a black coat. "Let yourself be one with the Holy Spirit. It's your choice. I will always honour it." If there was malicious intent behind the old nun's words, Hermione didn't notice it. The snow under her leather boots squeaked - the sound of that phenomenon left her twitching. Snowflakes touched her perky nose as the silver haired woman made her way towards the nunnery. There was a pang inside Hermione’s chest - her gaze softly focusing on tombs and bare trees surrounding the graveyard. The scenery was too striking and blinking she tried to escape the dryness of her eyes. The sky was grey and cloudy; it only added a more poignant atmosphere to the huge dome behind her. 

"Are you coming, Hermione?" She snapped her attention to the figure in front of her and with a deathly grip on the bible she bit her inner cheeks. The desperate need of running away had built in her lower abdomen. However, it wasn't like her. She sighed between the rapid thoughts inside her skull. Hermione didn't know who she was at all. She could measure the emotions she felt but not the faith of her heart. 

"I am going to the cemetery for a while, sister Minerva. I need solitude," she called between falling snow and gusts of wind, separating her from the elderly female. She spotted a curt nod and jumping in the opposite direction, her legs started to move faster and faster. Cold air burned her windpipe and later lungs - for the very first time in a long time she felt alive. Her chestnut tresses fell from the strict braid with every bounce in her run. Each step made her aware of how much she had missed... this freedom. Her knees almost gave in as she stumbled upon a root of an enormous willow tree. Scratching her hand on the bark sparked an electric reaction running down her spine. 

Exhale. Inhale. 

Gripping her ribcage from both sides Hermione's eyes took the melancholic landscape in. Broken tombstones reminded her of the marble floor in the church. But there was not any grace attached to it. Only the misery of death. Slumping forward the girl's trembling hand finally touched the icy engravings. Was Jesus supposed to die and leave all his people to despair in agony? Where was his love? What is love? Her fingertips dug into the puffy layer of white snow. Is love something material? How could God do so little while staying so indifferent? What was she supposed to believe? Heaven and hell seemed to have a thin line between them; her amber eyes closed when her digit traced an "a" shape. She couldn't be a saint. Nobody was without fault. Her head was empty. She didn't hear godly voices inside it. 

"Help me," her whisper came with rapid heartbeats. If she didn’t have God, who remained with her? The name Jane Granger only deepened a gaping hole in her beating heart as she aimlessly dusted the grave. Here, between snow and death God seemed to be nonexistent. "Where is my faith?" She asked no one. The answer hidden behind the sounds of a raging snow storm. There was an intimate connection in her vulnerability and the oddness of dying. It wasn't something she was afraid of. Not the dying part, more like the living one. She felt someone's eyes upon her hunched form and with a quick move she turned around only to see an empty road. She frowned, her limbs paralysed with an irrational fear. The shaking of her hand had returned but before she glanced at it, a huge, dark shape came into the view of her peripheral vision. She almost laughed out loud when her irises spotted the thing. It was a cross. Moved by a constant storm, the figure of Jesus looked like a beggar. His features adorned with pain and bliss -not so different than the one at the altar.

"Perhaps you enjoy watching the misery of others, Lord," she quickly put a hand over her treacherous mouth and closed her eyes. She was speaking nonsense and if her sisters heard her she would have been brought in for an exorcism. Kneeling on the wet ground she prayed. Prayed for a quick end if there was any. 

\--------

The room was warm and crowded; the sisters came from every direction as Hermione studied another scripture from the new testament. Her inquisitive eyes analysed every word and in fact, every impossibility. After returning from an unpleasant stroll she quickly drank hot tea and watched the stained glass windows of the church. She had her favourite one where angels laid upon the ground in ecstasy mixed with anguish on their faces. Her fingers scratched her right forearm and without a thought she put more pressure there. The book fell from her knees and hit the stone ground. An echo erupted in her eardrums and as she recalled the sound a pale hand appeared in her personal space. 

“Before Sister Dolores sees this,” eyes as blue as a cool mountain stream smiled at her when the owner of them put the fallen object in her arms. Hermione's lips curled and shaking her head as a thank you, she quickly closed her fingers on the edge of the book. 

“Are you going to the vigil?” her voice was hoarse as the walk in snow did not help her previous illness. The heart shaped face of Luna, brightened at the mention of a future meeting. 

“Yes, I am supposed to sign there. Are you perhaps unwell, Hermione? You look rather pale,”she touched her forehead with concern. Swatting her hand away softly, Hermione smiled and stood up. 

“I am perfectly fine, Luna, just tired. It’s from a lack of proper sleep and endless prayers,” admitting to the truth was not an easy task, but in front of her one true friend she could do that much. At least Luna of all people, deserved her truthfulness. They had been in the nunnery since they were fifteen and without any living family members, they only had each other. Fate pushed the narrative of faith upon Hermione's shoulders even though her parents were religious people themselves. Maybe, just maybe, it was a punishment for her. If so, God was nothing but an imperfect human being. The door opened and a short, plump nun observed both of them with a toxicity beaming from her in waves. 

“Both of you are needed at the altar. Mind your smalltalk and do something useful like prayers and psalms,” sister Dolores spat before suggesting they move from their spot. Gathering her skirts and rosary Hermione walked past the older female and obediently moved towards the church. She could hear Luna’s footsteps and loud exhales of air coming from one of their sisters. The staircase was dark and empty and as she passed it by, she could swear that someone was watching them - lurking in the shadows like an entity born out of them. She shrugged and tried to think about something more optimistic or theological. In fact the vigil was held in memory of a priest that served the village for many years. She remembered him well, long beard, eyeglasses and heartfelt laughter. When she was a child she always described him as a wizard. Silly thing, she mused, how such frivolous thoughts could find an alternative way of expressing itself in front of her parents. Creativity wasn't her forte. Playing on piano was one, however her biggest love was books. Her dad owned a small library where he would read her psychological essays that she still could remember. The smell of the interior also lingered in her memories, strong and present as if it had happened only yesterday. Stepping into the dome Hermione found her place in the right alcove between Ginevra and Lavender. The two of them shared funny looks and stared at their bibles. The candles were lit and her nose could detect the scent of incense - it invaded her senses lulling her into abstract feeling of belonging. The cross still remained the same, same features, same glory. Nothing different from the morning sight. Where was a true Jesus in all of this? In the way of tortured limbs? Between broken bones? She couldn't see him anywhere - not in himself nor in herself. There was that nothingness, a hazy emotion that crept upon her while she studied the sculpture. Maybe that was the point. Nothingness burned and left you breathless - was that everlasting love? 

“My dear sisters, I am delighted to see how many of you decided to honour a fellow servant of God,” there was a silent agreement coming from the crowd as the old nun smiled at them. “Take a moment of silence in memory of the late Albus,” she bowed her head in respect and nodded at no one particular. “Before you start your excellent work, let me introduce you to the new priest that had been Albus’ apprentice back in town,” she motioned someone to move and from the red curtains and behind the altar came a man. A man that looked like a God. High cheekbones and full lips, dark hair swept into a neat hairstyle suggesting an image of perfection - but those eyes. Hermione dug her fingernails into the soft tissue of her inner palm. Those eyes could only assure her of the devil’s existence.


	2. miserere mei, deus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Hermione’s memory lane. TW: mentions of child abuse, mental illness, molestation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information about this chapter:
> 
> Dalmeny - village in Scotland, located in close proximity to Edinburgh.
> 
> Kidron - the Hebrew name Qidron is derived from the root qadar, "to be dark", and may be meant in this context as "dusky". It's also a valley in the Bible. 
> 
> The Devils of Loudoun - is a 1952 non-fiction novel by Aldous Huxley. It is a historical narrative of supposed demonic possession, religious fanaticism, sexual repression, and mass hysteria that occurred in 17th-century France surrounding unexplained events that took place in the small town of Loudoun. Later adapted into Opera by Penderecki.

> _This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me. _
> 
> _\- Franz Kafka_

When Hermione was eight her house resembled a castle to her. She took books from her father's library and placed them beside the window of her bedroom, only to read them til she was passed out on huge pillows that her mother had sewn. The words back then were too complicated for her, essays full of psychological statements and surgeon's beliefs echoed in her naïve mind. In that case the small girl decided to become a doctor, fascinated with bodies and their fragility, sparked an enormous interest to discover more. Daddy's career as a local dentist became a slight obsession, as Hermione tagged along with him to see his patients. Never _cases_. He didn’t like addressing people like that.

She wasn't that fond of mouths and cavities, yet with huge orbs she took the lessons in. Her father's auburn hair contrasted with faces full of terror when his hand searched for surgical tools. Hermione wanted to serve the people, help with their flaws, make them happier. That's why whenever her mother was sad, she would eagerly put on her white lab coat to act as a specialist to provide care.

Father always was cheerful, he cracked jokes while eating soup, tickled his baby daughter, and liked to take her piggy backs into the backyard. His laughter was bellowing but sweet. Her mother on the other hand was composed and elegant, often melancholic and unresponsive. She would sit on her bed the whole day going without any meals and would usually cry, even if she didn’t seem sad at all. 

"Mommy's sick,  Hermione ," dad used to say. "You see, you are too young to understand this, but some illnesses aren't visible at all, just know that your mother _loves_ you very much.” He would poke her perky nose and give her another daisy from their garden. Thanks to his words she started to value her mother's privacy more. She would bring her fruits and then watch them rot as her mommy never ate in her presence anymore. The apples tended to last longer than peaches, but when that sickly sweet scent of overripe fruit hit her nostrils she exited the room. She wasn't scared of worms, not at all, however the sight of rotting food turned into nightmares in which it was her mother's corpse. 

When she was nine years, seven months, and twelve days old, her dad fell off a ladder and hit his head. The hospital's walls were dirty and her boots had stuck to the floor due to its clammy texture. She wondered if it was old blood and fluids from bodies, _not people_, because the doctor told her mommy that in that wing people die. She was too observant to miss that detail, whereas her mother burned holes in the ugly looking door. It was the next night that her father passed away - John Granger died and in Hermione's mind, her own mother died as well. 

The house turned into a gloomy, cold mansion that no one visited. Her imagination didn't help at all, the colorful childhood memories vanished and that fairy tale castle from her dreams, turned into a coffin. Her mother developed a fear of everything - at nights she would scream at no one in particular and later blame her medications for such things. Her once lush curly, brown hair started to fall off in clumps and with a surprising speed, she became almost bald. Mother’s ghostly appearance and tear stained cheeks haunted Hermione, as she tended to her needs. Maybe if mother had died with daddy then she would have gone to the nunnery sooner. Hermione would have been spared watching her mother wither away. Nevertheless, the eve before her twelfth birthday a guest from Edinburgh arrived. 

"Uncle Amadeus," Mother greeted. In the door stood a fifty two year old male with a cane in his hand. His green eyes observed the dilapidated corridor behind her and when they landed on her small person - the bible fell off her knees as her hands shot upwards to support her weight.

"Hermione _dear_," the fear that gripped her young heart at his words should have told her to run away, but she didn't. 

* * *

The face of Father Tom was a spectacular sight. It looked as if it was sculpted from marble. His jawline and high cheekbones bared a striking resemblance to the statues standing in the alcoves behind her. He was moving, walking in long strides, all about him was an air of superiority. From the way his hands were placed behind his back, to the calculating manner of positioning himself beside sister Minerva. Maybe he did look like a God, someone so beautiful that the thought of him tingled all the nerves inside one’s body and brain. That electric buzz galloping through the shape of one's spine. He felt like that unsaid emotion between the untouched fingers of God and Adam, something surreal yet magnetizing. He didn’t resemble Jesus: the mass of his limbs still perfect in the angular momentum. The light from the stained glass behind him reflected upon his features, changing them into a colorful splash of perfection. His eyes, though cold, were an unforgiving hue of blue. The loveless pits of ocean's water which could drown any person in a second. She had seen only one pair of similar orbs. The predator's irises. 

"I'm deeply honored and humbled to assist the sisters from this nunnery," his voice was like thunder. There wasn't any warmth to it. Hermione quickly glanced around to see if the new priest made an impression on the others, but she saw nothing but faces glued to the orator. 

"As some of you may know, I was a protégée of Father Albus. I'm sorry for your loss," the way his lips pouted reminded her of sister Dolores. It wasn't sincere. Why? Why would he fake his pain when he had lived through years under the supervision of Albus? 

"He will be immensely missed. Keep him in yours prayers," his head bowed and something flashed through his blank stare as he scanned the crowd. The heat on her neck intensified and a sick feeling of nausea hit her senses before she could put a hand on the back rest of wooden pew. Lavender shot her an odd glance as she worked through the rosary in her fingers. 

Father Tom returned to the shadows and Hermione couldn’t help but ponder on the way he carried himself. He resembled uncle Amadeus too much in that fearsome way, the lingering of his eyes, the hard tone of his voice, and the lack of visual display of emotions. Shifting in her seat, she sighed when Luna took the microphone and began singing. Would God hear these psalms after all? The answer in her troubled mind screamed no, as she closed the Bible and looked at the cross with confused feelings underneath her ribcage. 

* * *

Sister Minerva always insisted on going to the therapy sessions. Her fifteen year old self protested til Hermione turned sixteen and the nightmares didn’t vanish. She liked to delude herself into thinking that all of the things she lived through didn't happen. It was easier that way, maybe more on the cowardly side. She was beginning to lose her mind just like her mother. It was a fear with which she woke in the middle of the night, gripping her bed sheets in her fists. Her mind was the only thing that was hers, after all. She wouldn’t survive without it. After one of these nights, full of terrible memories, Hermione found herself soaked wet at the altar, face to face with the figure of Mother Mary. Her features were angelic and soothing. A mother of all mothers. She didn’t remember much more from that event. Just staring at the unmoving statue. 

When they found her the next morning she was sleeping on the marble floor with rosary beads curled around her neck in a vain attempt to take her life. Her feet bleeding and nightgown dirty with blood, as remains of Mary's sculpture were scattered around her with their sharp edges colored red. 

"I don't remember," she would say watching as the wrinkles around Minerva's eyes would strain. Maybe it was better to visit Dr. Lupin after all. 

Dr. Lupin in fact, was a man of few words. His glasses sat on the edge of his nose, looked as if they could fall off at any moment. His office was rather small, but neat. There wasn't any religious items suggesting his faith, that's why Hermione eased the grip on the chair she was sitting on. Everything about Remus Lupin screamed too normal to be true. Nothing betrayed his evil nature, which she deduced he didn't posses. It was embarrassing to tell about the life she lived in front of him and different sisters that accompanied her to the meetings. She never liked it when it was sister Minerva's turn. She would squirm in her seat and tended to omit the ugly truths. 

"Was you mother aware?" the question was aimed at her, yet she was looking at the older sister's face with resignation. 

"No, sir." Her answers were clipped and short but the sensation of being interrogated remained on her slumped shoulders. The meetings were difficult because her own nature and personality wasn’t very open. The corners of her dry lips cracked, as her fingers nervously played with the hem of her wool robe. "She was quite unresponsive," she provided when an older female shot her a reassuring gaze. Remus face remained passive while his hand scribbled against the paper with sounds that eased her person. His pen abruptly stopped as his eyeglasses dangerously danced on the tip of his nose. 

"When was the first time?" Hermione spotted a black car pulling into the parking lot behind Lupin's back and when her eyes returned to the therapist’s, she sheepishly smiled. 

"About three weeks after he came," she developed some kind of an armor to prevent herself from falling into despair. The memories were still too fresh and her wounds open. Absentmindedly her fingers scratched the length of her forearm. The sound of engine being turned off resonated in the tiny interior and resulted in sister Minerva twitching in her seat. The fan on the ceiling was driving her crazy, its movements making her dizzy. 

"Minerva, would you mind leaving us alone for a moment? It will only take a few minutes, you can go back to your daily routine in town," the doctor suggested as her supervisor awkwardly nodded and with a stern look exited the room. Hermione's irises found Lupin's and with a mute battle of stares, she looked down. 

"You want to ask me something you wouldn't ask in front of sister Minerva, right?" her lips curled and with a resigned sigh she faced the older male. Tragedy wasn’t pretty nor romantic, in her world it was brutal and evil. The world she lived in didn’t possess God, because God wouldn’t let that happen. Outside, someone closed a car door with too much force. 

"Hermione, this is a very subtle, no, a fragile thing to ask. Especially taking into account what you’ve gone through," he offered her chocolate but she politely refused. She didn’t like sweets as she knew by heart what sugar did to teeth. It was her being highly logical. "But we must know. Your uncle," her nails dug into the soft tissue of her skin while her face betrayed nothing. "Did he only abuse you verbally or was it also physical?" the muscle in his cheek twitched. Her brown orbs returned to the painting of geometric figures. _There_. There she could see the logic. 

* * *

The cold air slapped her face as she closed the door behind her. Snow was falling from the sky and looked like dirty cotton candy on the ground. The road, however was busy as trucks slowly made their way down the icy asphalt. She fastened the purple scarf around her neck and with a soft tug she put gloves in the same color on her cold hands. Squinting her eyes she scanned the area for sister Minerva. The only person present in the vacant parking lot was a man leaning against a black car. His back was facing her, so she turned around and looked in the other direction. The cold slowly crept down her spine. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Had sister Minerva already gone to the church? Hermione's anxiety was trying to get a hold of the reasonable part of herself, but she was too perceptive. Before she could deduce the bus number an unknown palm rested on her shoulder blade. She almost got whiplash as her neck snapped at the stranger. 

"Hermione, right?" the silk baritone rung in her ears, as his icy irises tried to see how her brain worked. He was standing so close she could smell his cologne and she found herself conflicted questioning his choice of scent. It was strong and masculine, yet the base was definitely something much calmer, like a white tree or even aloe. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact source, however as soon as she realized what she was doing her body reacted on its own. Escaping his close proximity, her hands started to dust non-existing snow from her coat. 

"_Father_ _Tom_," she greeted him with a slow nod as his Adam's apple jumped at her voice. He stood in full glory in front of her: all of his features contrasting with the white background. The clerical collar was hidden beneath his knit cardigan, so a naive bypasser wouldn’t be able to picture him as a priest. It was hard to tell his actual age as his marble cheekbones and blue eyes betrayed nothing but the rich waters of Kidron. Her lips parted as a gust of her own breath transformed into greyish steam, while her knuckles clenched around her coat’s sleeves. 

“Sister Minerva had to assist a poor family living nearby in the city square,” he supplied with a fake mannerism of pleasantness. “I shall take you to Dalmeny by car,” his pale hand gestured toward a black van behind him and Hermione’s mind swirled around the idea of a forty minute journey with him in such a small proximity as a vehicle. The wind was getting stronger and her bushy hair was flying around her head getting more frizzy from the cold. She nodded, even if she internally screamed that she wanted to take the bus. His perfect eyebrow moved a few millimeters higher but he didn’t speak, just moved away to present her free passage towards the door. The interior of the Volvo was minimalistic and almost bare, only a pearly rosary hung from the rear-view mirror, dangling in her vision. The soft clasp of the closing door erupted in her ears as Father Tom’s scent hit her nostrils once again. She twisted her hands around the woollen material of her robe and looked straight ahead. There was a faint bad smell that lingered there, something stingy and addictive, she didn’t have any idea what it could possibly be, as her brown eyes scanned the upholstering. 

“Do you smoke?” her treacherous mouth opened before she could stop it and biting her inner cheek Hermione observed the priest from her peripheral vision. He let out a dry chuckle and ignited the engine with a swift move of his wrist.

“You have amazing senses, _child_” his tongue protruded through his lips at the last palatal consonant and she quickly dropped her gaze. She felt the icy atmosphere clawing at her from every side of the vehicle. 

“I’m not a child,  sir, ” her words were brazen and she knew it, but the insult resonated inside her mind like a bullet freed from the trigger. He turned left and lazily pushed the button of the radio, it illuminated a sickly greenish color and the soft notes of classical music began to unfold. Her ears perked upon hearing the sounds and her curiosity diminished her irritation. Trucks were moving slowly behind the windows, as her nose touched its chilly surface. 

“Ah, yes. You’re eighteen, mind me if I’m wrong?” his perfect teeth showed themselves in his deadly smile. He didn’t feel warm. Not at all. 

“Yes, eighteen is correct,” she didn’t bother with formalities and felt the crescendo of music before it actually arrived.  “_The Devils of Loudun_?” her question was almost too soft, too unsophisticated but when his eyes found hers in the mirror with mute recognition she felt an iron hand gripping her insides in its grip. The blue of his sockets seemed to beam with energy she hadn’t seen before, it looked almost sinister.

“Your taste is peculiar, I see,” he hummed as he switched the gear. “Do you recall the story behind this opera?” She heard a challenge there. In a nanosecond of his enquiry and a few heartbeats, Hermione could imagine how her cheeks colored pink due to the discourse happening between them. It was almost fascinating. 

“Of course, it’s quite horrendous. I wonder if their visions were that realistic,” she wet her lips in a hurry. “Evil comes in various shapes, that’s why it’s so terrifying. It can be anywhere, in anyone. Lurking in the shadows, but also out in broad daylight.”

The traffic light changed to red and she stole a glance at Father Tom. His jaw was clenched, tense muscles hidden underneath milky skin, with no freckles upon it.  _ Perfection _ , some odd voice whispered in her consciousness. 

“Hermione,” he sounded different. The rough edges to his tone made her name more raw, more profound. “I'm a killer. I lure young and childish girls who are fascinated by pathetic things. I charm them with my beauty, because I know my handsome looks work. Later I strangle them with linen rope that I’m hiding under my seat. I, it’s rather embarrassing, I immensely hate blood,” she felt every bone in her body become rigid and later aflame. The air in her lungs hurt so much that her fingers couldn’t grip the belt. He was staring openly at her, without any emotion on his gorgeous features. Utter blankness. 

“ Wha- ,” she couldn’t finish because he leaned in her direction and stilled. Slowly his lips cracked in a horrible smirk. 

“You’re right,” he whispered. “Evil is fickle. You can relax,” the addition did nothing to calm her shaking form. “I was talking about the famous murderer from the States. Haven't you heard about him?” he offered no apologies and withdraw with the speed of a wild animal. She was furious at him and especially at herself. She behaved like a lamb and she had promised herself to never again become the victim. Mechanically her fingertips scratched on her forearm with slight force. 

“I don’t spend my time researching _psychopaths_,  Father, ” her ire was met with a steel of his indifferent mask. The landscape became more remote and devoid of people. Only snow scarps and barren trees everywhere she looked, reminding her that another twenty minutes of this painful drive remained. 

“Their minds are truly powerful,” Tom’s hands leisurely draped over the steering wheel as his hooded eyes observed the road before him. “Power is God’s greatest gift.” His explanation tasted bad in her opinion, but she kept silent. “Do you believe in God, Hermione?” the question startled her. She wasn’t ready for that discussion. Not with him, of course. 

“Yes,” the lie escaped her lips easier than she’d thought. Taking the winter scenery in, she missed the dangerous gleam in his icy irises. 

“Oh, yes.  _Me too_, ” her neck prickled with goosebumps, because his voice sounded strangely forbidding. She wasn’t the only one who was laying. 


End file.
